


Let It Go and Be Well

by Merfilly



Series: Avenged, Annealed, and Atoned [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merfilly/pseuds/Merfilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is settling in on his temporary duty assignment, but hasn't touched base with the team yet. That's fine; they tend to find things on their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Go and Be Well

The alert from the dimensional breach was still going off when the power faded briefly in the command center. Phil felt the chair shift with him in it, independent shields activating, and a variety of weapons bristling from the ports he had not yet explored.

Of course the chair was a weapon. His controls extended into a tac display that was familiar, based on current SHIELD control boards, and he was as ready as all the agents on the bridge to confront... Thor.

A small part of his mind was already calculating the trouble that could be wreaked by a god-like being having the capability to idly teleport in. Another started trying to figure out which technicians to put on the task of making the shielding of their various facilities repel the invasion. 

A larger part than he dared admit was amused and even happy to see the ruler of Asgard.

"Fury!" Thor bellowed. "You must answer for the falsehood you have perpetuated in the name of manipulating Asgard's actions!"

The high whine of energy weapons charging was to be expected on the heels of those words, but Phil remained calm, off to one side, as Fury emerged from his office to confront Thor. Mjolnir was at Thor's side, barely crackling with the residual energy of the teleport, which allowed Phil to remain his impassive self, overlooked for now.

"I see the Tesseract is useful to your people," Fury countered, low and logical, completely off-topic to Thor's rant... and it served to take the wind from the god of storms.

"It is under the guard of Heimdall, until a true Bridge can be reconstructed," Thor admitted freely. Phil knew that meant Thor wasn't as angry as his bellow could have indicated. If Thor willingly said that, he still considered an alliance in effect.

"You have a problem to discuss?" Fury invited, betraying nothing in his stance to say he was anything save less than impressed.

"There has been a long association with Midgard warriors and Asgard's ranks of eternal warriors, Fury, and when a noble fighter falls in the presence or for the name of an Asgardian, their soul is... replicated there! Yet I have searched the mighty host of Asgard, and found no new warrior that matches the Son of Coul in any fashion!"

"That might be because I failed to remain dead," Phil volunteered from his chair, overriding its shields after a moment... and a backwards kick of his heel at the recalcitrant thing. He wasn't even going to consider just what that meant at all, as it more or less cut across all of his upbringing. Valhalla was not heaven, nor was it hell.

Thor turned at the voice, and then he was charging across the intervening space, stopping only as he reached the chair. Phil half thought he meant to pick it all up for a hug, but had managed to get the lap belt off, so the chair remained down as Thor grabbed him up. Phil managed to not wheeze too much at the bear-hug, and only lightly winced... which led to Thor setting him down and dropping to sit on the floor beside him.

"You are still injured, Son of Coul. This is not good."

Fury watched a moment, resigned himself to the stubborn godling remaining there, and turned to go back inside his office. Phil looked his way, caught the subtle hand sign, and buckled his chair back up.

"Come with me, and we'll talk," Phil said, to get Thor out of command. It would not hurt to keep the god on their good side, but he really didn't need access to the inner working of SHIELD's senior staff.

"I believe a celebration should be held!" Thor said as he bounced to his feet. "Have you had shawarma yet?"

"Actually... the executive mess is closer and easier for me to contend with." Phil led the way, making his chair put away all of its weaponry as he did so.

`~`~`~`~`

Once Thor had been convinced that Phil was as hale as he could be, and stuffed, for the godling had an appetite that was prodigious, Phil thought his day could resume its usual course of analysis and being Fury's sounding board.

One day, Phil would know better than to take such things for granted. This was not that day.

He had his head down over his laptop, working steadily on updating the notes on the potential threat posed by the dictator of Latveria having access to the factories of Symkaria. Fury's intuition had labeled it as the next likely point of threat to the uneasy global peace, and Phil was inclined to concur. He only remotely noted the opening of Fury's door, glancing up to see that it was only Agent Barton walking in.

He had returned to his analysis in the next moment, and his fingers were poised over the keyboard to type more when his brain actually processed the full impact of who had come in.

Agent Barton.

There were so many nuances to Barton's place in Phil's life. He knew that there was no small amount of emotional entanglement outside of SHIELD, as Barton was, in many ways, Phil's personal pride. He had handled Barton since his first days in SHIELD, and they had shared more missions than any other pair of Agents, save perhaps Barton and Romanova.

He was, so to speak, on the clock, though.

"Coulson," Barton said, voice tinged with surprise, but controlled enough to pass muster.

"Barton," Phil answered, level and unshakeable.

"Agent Barton, you have news for me concerning Wakanda's recent upheavals?" Fury demanded, focusing this into a business meeting. Phil opened a new file folder, to begin his analysis, ignoring all the ways his chest was twinging at having to remain calm and professional.

"Yes sir," Barton said, and he launched into his debrief, eyes fixed on Fury rather than Phil. Once the agent had left, and before Fury could immerse himself in his own work, Phil hazarded a question.

"Why did you never tell them, sir?"

Fury turned to appraise his right hand man, then shrugged. "After taking on a god, and nearly dying, some men might have chosen to vanish. Easier to do that when you are believed to be dead."

Nick had been giving him a way out... and Phil could respect that, even as he violently objected to the cowardice of such an action.

"Understood, sir." Phil went back to his work then, even managed to not retype any paragraph more than twice, but he knew Barton had been rattled and would require reassurance. The man developed deep attachments, a profile note that Phil had tried to make certain did not get abused. Much.

"Would you get out of here?" Fury finally demanded. "I need some time to think about all these cases you flagged as priority!"

"Yes sir." Phil did not permit himself a smile at knowing Fury... Nick... was being more indulgent than usual.

It wasn't every day that man got back one of the few people he cared about.

`~`~`~`~`

"...and there he was, just sitting there in a power chair, working like nothing had happened!" Clint was railing as Phil reached the training room. He paused outside the door to see if his guess would be right as to who was with his friend.

"We never saw a body. In Russia, that automatically implies that the person is not dead."

He had been. Agent Romanova, or Natasha as he was allowed to call her off-duty. Well, that would make this easier, as he guided the chair inside. 

Both were looking at him, calculating his threat potential by instinct, and only slowly relaxing... at least on the professional side. Personally, they were both steel traps guarded by adamantium shields.

"Care if I use the equipment?" he asked, parking the chair and making it let him escape its confines... which necessitated a backwards kick again. Apparently it read his physical status as being threatened, and he couldn't blame it, knowing his pulse was elevated in anticipation.

"Free country." Clint's comment was as noncommittal as ever, and Phil walked over to hang his jacket on a hook, opting for the speed bag to try and work on his stamina. The lingering weakness was, supposedly, a result of the medically-induced coma they had used to let him heal fully, but Phil found himself resenting it more each day.

He knew they were watching him, even as Natasha worked with the free weights and Clint utilized the training machines for legs. He tried not to note how sleek and strong both looked, tried not to dwell on the fact that his mind was now settling. Granted, he had looked up their records but seeing was a different, atavistic way of knowing that intellectual data never quite filled.

"Cap know yet?" Clint finally asked when Phil tired of the speed bag and moved to a treadmill.

Phil kept a perfectly straight face, not letting himself think about that meeting. "I was under the impression he was travelling, relearning America. As I have not left SHIELD facilities, no."

"Why not leave?" Natasha asked, and Phil had a better feel for it. They would work in tandem, seeking to tear his throat out if he failed to convince them that he was still their man.

"I despise the chair. I believe they got it from one of Stark's companies." He had to be imagining that the chair had either whined or scoffed. It was inanimate. "Also, I'm already on duty. Personally assigned to Fury as chief analyst."

"That's beneath you," Clint said with a snap in his voice, indicating his temper was rising.

"Why?"

Natasha's questioning word reined Clint back, and Phil regarded her evenly, never breaking his ground eating pace on the treadmill.

"Because of the chair."

It was easier to blame the chair than admit out loud that he was not yet in shape. Easier, he admitted in his own mind, that the chair was a better excuse than 'I died and haven't gotten better'.

Natasha held his gaze, then set her weights down, walking over with a steady gait. Likewise, Clint rose off the machine he was using, and Phil refused to answer the fear that they would reject his place with them because he had been dead, because he had not contacted them, because...

Natasha swiped at him, and he had to move quickly to keep his balance, avoid the blow, and get out of the confining bars of the treadmill. Clint made that harder, throwing his own punch that Phil had to actually duck, poking a jab out into rock hard abs as he moved.

His chest hurt, and he was breathing hard, but those two were so close and dangerous in their mood.

On Natasha's next swing, Phil side-stepped, caught the wrist, and tried to torque her off balance, pulling her into Clint's path. It hurt, but he managed. A little bit of distance as they untangled, and he fought to even his breathing, knowing he had gone gray around his lips from the sudden exertion.

Natasha stopped Clint herself, taking in the visual clues. "You are out of training."

"Something about having sharp weapons pushed through your back, ribs, and tearing a lung while nicking your heart does that," Phil admitted, trying to read what their consensus decision would be.

"Fury's handling your physical training?" Clint asked.

"Or Hill, if he's got an early meeting," Phil agreed.

"That ends now. He coddles you," Natasha said flatly. Phil wanted to know what part of running him until he dropped, then push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups until he puked was coddling, but she was coming over and undoing the buttons of his office shirt. Phil stood stock still, and when she pushed up his undershirt knew he had done well enough to get a pass for now.

It was Clint who actually touched the front scar, while Natasha traced the entry wound's mark on his back. "Nicked your heart?" Clint repeated, making Phil nod.

"I had to hack my medical records to find out," he admitted.

"Get dressed." Natasha walked away to gather up the rest of her own gear, and Clint followed suit.

Phil could do nothing but obey.

`~`~`~`~`

One luxury Natasha and Clint had insisted on in the small apartment they kept for either one to use off mission, but still attached to HQ, was a tall bed. It was tall enough to make it perfectly comfortable to stand beside it and fuck the living daylights out of someone right on the edge.

Right now, Phil was not complaining in the least that the bed had been a bitch to assemble. He might never complain about it again. He was on the receiving side of things, trapped between the rough, almost abusingly hard rhythm of Clint behind him, and helplessly under Natasha's domination as she coached his oral ministrations for her.

It felt closer to home than anything had since the fight, and Phil just wanted to lose himself in it, just ignore how Clint kept tracing the puncture scar, ignore that their mutual ferocity was a grief-relief springboard.

Clint was the first to break fully, both hands coming down to hold Phil still as he thrust harder and more erratically. Natasha was talking out her commands and pleasure in a mix of languages, even as her partner rested heavily against Phil's back. That only lasted until their demanding woman started pulling Phil up her body. Clint recovered enough to help Phil get a condom on, then crawled up alongside them. The familiar feel of Clint's hand between their bodies, stroking her clit as Phil sank deep was one more piece of coming home, and Phil let go of it all.

`~`~`~`~`


End file.
